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This awesome picture was
taken in the Bitterroot National Forest in Montana on May 20, 2000 by a
fire behavior analyst from Fairbanks, Alaska by the name of John McColgan
with a Digital camera. Since he was working while he took the
picture,
he cannot sell or profit from it so he should at least be recognized as
the photographer of this once in a lifetime shot.
California Wild Fire Experience
of Scott Adams
By permission from Dilbert, 23 Dec 2003
Recent True Story:
Midnight, Danville California, heart pounding, sound of sneakers on
pavement, sockless, sweating, adrenaline pumping. Two minutes ago I was
climbing into bed. Now I'm running down a pitch-black street, full speed,
fearing the worst.
Neighbor's sidewalk, dark, don't trip. KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Doorbell too. DING-DONG-DING.
C'mon, c'mon, wake up! There he is. Open the door.
I blurt: "THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE.
I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
Two houses alerted. The next one is the hardest. It's around the corner,
nearest the blaze. Full sprint. Hope the fire hasn't reached them yet. No
sirens. How long has it been since I called 911? Damn moonless night. I
can't see anything but the fire, now only a patch of dry grass from the
house. No lights. The occupants are oblivious, probably in bed. Front
walkway is an obstacle course. Jump, guess, steps maybe. Got lucky, no
sprains.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
"THE HILL BEHIND YOUR HOUSE IS ON FIRE. I ALREADY CALLED 911!"
He's fast with the garden hose. Does that ever work? One more house, then
I'll load the car for evacuation. Legs pump harder, pick it up a notch,
sprint now, rest later, make a mental list of what to take, what to leave.
Cats first, then unfinished Dilbert strips and art supplies. Computers.
Photos. How much can the car hold?
The firemen have my address. Have to meet them out front. Gotta hurry, but
save some energy for the evacuation. Nah, forget saving energy. Full
throttle. Adrenalin will compensate. Siren approaching. They're fast,
maybe 5 minutes since I called. I wave my arms and point to the side
street. The fire truck slows a beat, reads me and accelerates toward the
fire.
One truck. ONE TRUCK???? The whole hill is on fire. I should have sounded
more worried on the phone. It's my fault if the neighborhood burns up.
Okay, the arsonist's too.
I fly up my stairs, three at a time. Quickly, survey belongings. Might not
see any of this again. Pam already put two angry cats in the car; her arms
are bleeding. I throw possessions in empty bins. Look out the window. I
could hit the flames with a golf ball. Nothing but dry underbrush
separates us. Stay calm. There's still some room in the car. Think, think.
What will I miss most? What am I forgetting?
The car is only half full. It's surprising how little I "need"
when it comes down to it. I sprint toward the fire to see who's winning. A
second fire truck passes me. Now it's a fair fight.
The neighbors gather on the street, a ragtag theater of bed- hair,
pajamas, and gym clothes, chatting, comparing stories. We watch,
impressed, as the two fire crews beat down the fire one square foot at a
time. They don't even seem worried. A dozen dark shapes on the hill make
quick work of the perimeter and methodically mop up the smaller pockets.
My pulse slowly returns to normal. I unload the car and apologize to the
cats.
I often think about that fire, and about the many ghosts that visited the
neighborhood that summer night. I'm sure I felt the ghosts of engineers
who created a technical miracle called the phone network, that later
spawned the 911 system, so I could report the fire within 15 seconds of
seeing it. And I know I saw the ghosts of engineers who designed the fire
equipment that allowed two small teams of firefighters to conquer a
burning hill. And there were the ghosts of all the firefighters who have
lived before, having bequeathed their skills and traditions to each new
generation. Most notably, that night I was also visited by the ghosts of
September 11th, my old friends. Almost every day they visit to remind me
to be more alert, to investigate strange smells, strange sounds, as I did
that night, until finding one window view that revealed the flames.
Philosophers have many views of the human soul. In the end, it's
undefined, unfathomable. The only thing I know for sure is that no one
really leaves.
Appreciate your ghosts, especially the ones you can still hug.
Have a great holiday.
Scott Adams
www.Dilbert.com
INSIGHT
"You shall know the truth, and the truth shall set
you free."
Etched on the University of Texas tower
by Mary Carol Lewis
The news I received two weeks ago has had a profound
effect on my thinking. That news has drawn my attention from most of the
topics I thought important in my life and forced my mind on itself. The
news has brought a bevy of provocative questions to my mind and demanded a
re-evaluation of my responses to life and its processes.
The information that one is dying is not news: everyone
is dying, and they know it. Information regarding imminent pain and
distress in one's life is not a surprise either: in fact it clears up some
ambiguities. And the certain knowledge that something that you do not want
to do will be absorbing a majority of your time (which you would rather
devote to "fun things") is not a surprise. The knowledge that
the ones you love will suffer a loss when you are gone does not come as a
shock either.
So why is it that the confirmation of a suspected
disease organism in one's precious body causes so much turmoil? Why is one
suddenly afraid? What is it that we fear? How can people who believe that
there is a purpose in everything become confused and fearful when they
hear that their lives on earth are likely to be shorter than those of
their friends?
On retreat this weekend I learned that a healthy
relationship cannot grow when there is a lot of "emotional
debris" in the life of one or both people. On
Sunday the minister asked us to examine the emotional debris in our lives
which was affecting our spiritual experience.
I discovered bits and pieces in my life that needed
sweeping up. I had become so used to them that I hardly noticed their
existence until this crisis. I discovered several sources for my fears:
lack of trust in others, fear of weakness, anxiety about being
over-burdened, concern about the unknown, distractions in my "worldly
life" were just a few.
It is interesting that we often put off cleaning up our
lives until the situation is urgent. Right now I can see clearly that I
need to make some changes in my life: inform myself on the relevant
topics, plan my living carefully and determine to implement those plans,
get back to the basics and eliminate everything (including people) that is
drawing energy from me without a return. I can also rejoice in the love,
wisdom, companionship, forgiveness and security God offers me. What I am
wondering now is how well I will implement these plans when the urgency
has lessened.
So often we assume that if God is all-powerful and He
loves us, He should always heal us and keep us free from all
pain. When we see that this is not happening, we doubt
1) his power, but more importantly
2) his genuine love for us.
When we came to him in sincere repentance we began to
try to fathom the overwhelming nature of his love -- so much that he has
forgiven all our own sin. And then he began pouring into us his own love
and concern. We choose to allow Him to use us to demonstrate his love for
us and for others.
We find that He does not always call us out of the
pains of living, but he always gives us the grace to bear it fruitfully.
Sometimes He allows others to observe us holding His
hand through the pain -- perhaps they will seek His wisdom and love as
well.
Low self-esteem and a comfort zone of fear also affect
our trust in God. Only if we believe that we are loveable can we
graciously accept love from someone else -- even God. A healthy
relationship with God or others produces synergy.
As I implement my plan, I believe I will discover a
relationship with God in which His purposes are being fulfilled and I am
being energized (forgiven, loved, inspired).
A personal relationship with God is a very intimate
one. I can learn healthy conflict-resolution skills for issues I have with
God. God has created a safe environment for me to get to know and love him
-- I will use it. I will learn to recreate this same safe environment in
my social life so that others can learn about his love as well.
I have noticed that my anxiety increases noticeably
when I know that there is something wrong, but the procedure to determine
the reality has not yet taken place. I notice I feel better after I have
"processed" the information available. I conclude that most of
our anxieties stem from ambiguity or fear of the unknown. But our future
(and health, etc.) is never known and bad things happen to us again and
again with no warning: and yet we don't live continuously in this state of
high anxiety. I suppose we press those ambiguous fears to the backs of our
minds. We suppress the information and fill our lives with dayliness.
Sometimes we handle bad news by turning it into a joke.
When the doctor told me about my condition, I responded: "Does this
mean I can start smoking?" and he laughed! (I was serious!) Another
friend regaled the singles table with a comic description of his prostate
cancer operation. There are a number of good things about dying. I've
thought of just a few:
1) You no longer have to do things you don't want to:
No more flossing!
2) You don't have to worry about the disappearance of
the ozone layer.
3) You don't have to diet or watch your cholesterol.
4) Serious illness is not recommended as a weight-loss
program, but it often works!
5) You don't have to continue storing books and
articles you never have time to read.
6) You can ignore distracting details that plague your
life.
7) Your children won't have to care for a cranky old
parent.
Of course, one of the problems with this line of
thinking is that prayer and medicine work miracles, and just as you are
really beginning to cast off all your responsibilities, you discover that
your prognosis is high for a complete and immediate recovery. Suddenly you
realize that you may be faced with 50 more years of daily flossing!
Editor's Note: Mary Carol Lewis wrote this upon
discovering she had cancer seven years ago. We publish it now as we
discover a dear friend has received the same diagnosis. Our prayers are
with her.
Mary Carol Lewis' newest book is Season of Lovers~ Discover the Joy
of Your Sensual Self, available on this web site.
Meditation
on discovering a friend's grave illness
by Kristi
Roberts
My
beautiful teacup is fragile
Its smooth porcelain texture belies the inner
strength of 54 yrs.
It was first filled with judgments and
youthful strong opinions.
Late nites it was warmed with sake and
long conversations between
Faithful women friends.
Packed and unwrapped it has traveled
across the miles of ocean and land.
Small town and big city it has
sipped the flavors.
Rich and deep it held its brew.
Now I fill my cup with gratefulness--grateful for
the Christmas cookie baking,
the Neil Diamond soft tunes,
and singers whose names I cannot remember,
but whose glow nourished my soul.
The photographs of blonde babies toddling
away from us...
Letters exchanged thru life
never saw a dimness
of my enthusiasm for adventure.
I am aware of my fragility now.
I have lost tender loved ones.
My sense of control is over my own
Mind now a days.
I refill my cup with gratefulness.
I cuddle up on the back porch swing
and sipping,
Enjoy its bountiful richness and aroma!
Living in a Gift
When you are living in the middle of a gift,
then there is a truth which replaces virtually all uncertainty.
by Ben Campbell
One day, when I was not looking, I found myself living in a gift. I did
not expect it, and I still do not know how to understand it, but it has
for a moment made sense of many things I have long believed.
The gift was Richmond Hill, the blessing within which I live. I was
standing in the Novitiate, the beautiful early 19th century parlor which
currently is our chapel. The windows in the Novitiate face south from the
hill, looking across the river to the edge of the horizon. The sun goes
across the sky from east to west, shaping the day from different
directions.
In the November sunlight, and in an unanticipated moment of stillness,
I realized I was breathing quietly and with an ease which had been absent
only minutes before. Things that I had been praying for had already
happened. Events beyond my control -- events of goodness -- were fully
present. We were moving forward from a firm foundation.
When you are living in the middle of a gift, then there is a truth
which replaces virtually all uncertainty. Nothing can be taken away. You
are living the chronicle of what is being received. Light, air, breath,
food, relationship, hope, redemption, justice, prayer, kindness, time,
respite -- these things assume firm presence and stature. The capital
investment of the creator in which our lives find their existence becomes
an experience, not an assumption. The grace without which we would shrivel
into nothing spreads its glow throughout our spirits and gives us life.
When we speak of "a gift," we are talking about something
identifiable -- something we have not seen or possessed before, or
something we have previously taken for granted which now is visible and
appreciated. What I did not know before is the way in which a gift can
suddenly illumine the whole of life and lay bare the full breadth of daily
existence. I did not know that the spark of someone's generosity could set
the very heavens ablaze with the glory of God, revealing the holy ground
on which all of us are standing even this very minute.
Reality then becomes both insubstantial and substantial. It is no
longer hard reality which forms the secure basis of experience, but soft
reality. Hard reality -- the tough facts of success and failure, of
matching and conflicting, of credits and debits, of physical health or
injury, of need and capacity on which daily human calculations depend --
becomes not the central story but the sideline of the story. The story is
in what is given. What is given happens. The sum total of the day is the
ultimately incalculable total of the gifts within which it occurs. Some of
those gifts appear to be payments. Others are less explicable. All are the
breath of life.
The story of Christmas is just that kind of story -- the story of a
purely gratuitous event which, if lived with, begins to reshape one's
whole approach to life and history.
Gifts need to be received to be alive. They need to be breathed in,
felt, sensed, thought about. Their fragrance, their taste, is there to be
experienced. The gift becomes an energy which enlivens the spirit and
expands one's view of life. Jesus was an unexpected gift to his parents,
and when he became old enough to be intentional, he went around Israel
giving gifts:
gifts to Jews and Arabs and Romans and Asians and Europeans and
Africans;
gifts to women and men and children, to elderly and infant;
gifts to persons of all religions and no religion;
gifts to rich and poor and middle income;
gifts of teaching, of comfort, of healing, of liberation, of
forgiveness, of confrontation, of encouragement, of loving presence, of
insight.
Jesus, himself the gift of his father, gave the gift of his own life,
lived in the spirit of giving. If there was a glow that surrounded him, if
there was a spirit which accompanied him in every gathering, if there was
a magic which seemed present all the time with him, it was that spirit. He
was living in the gift, and therefore he was behaving like gift. Gift was
the atmosphere of his consciousness, the conspiracy of his being.
The child was gift. The teacher and prophet was gift. The healer was
gift. The purpose-maker was gift. And the man willing to put his own life
on the line was nothing but gift.
Gratitude fills the afternoon light and we breathe in its golden
richness. We find that place of simplicity out of the storm of opulence
and breathe there the breath of what is most truly of value.
There is this kind of spirit in the air at this time of the year, no
matter what else is happening. Evil surrounds us and has a field day in
the world. Busyness, anxiety, and unsuspected misery always threaten to
choke out the more delicate joys of the Christmas season. But the spirit
of the gift endures regardless.
It endures because it is the deepest reality. Below the physical thing
is the spiritual thing. Beneath cynicism and failure is joy and birth. The
foundation is now, and will always be, gift.
On that, and only on that, can we completely rely.
This article was originally published in the December 2003 edition of
the Richmond Hill newsletter.
Of Time and Scheduling
by Mary Carol Lewis
This morning as I was leaving my house in the early dawn, I was struck by the
beauty of Saturn, Venus and the half moon in a clear, Persian blue sky. Beauty
and precision, accurate timing: Saturn is now in opposition to the Sun, so it
appeared very close to the full moon this month. And everyone on earth can see
this. How wonderful is that?
I thought about how much we long for everything to fit
logically into the compartments we have created to hold all the pieces. We were
delighted as a creation to discover that there are 24 hours in a day. Sunrise
and sunset are set on a course that can be predicted with accuracy. There are
about 28 of these "days" in each lunar month, and we immediately
designed calendars to match them (a little inaccurately). We noticed seasons and
created names and preparations for them. We received promises using those terms:
"As long as the earth remains, seedtime and harvest shall not perish from
the earth." Our prophets noticed and wrote about them eloquently: "For
everything there is a season: A time to live, a time to die..." We designed
and set clocks. We created and maintain calendars. We live by schedules, and
even the animals have a surprising understanding of time.
But God has more and greater schedules than we can imagine. Within our own
solar system the planets do not use a schedule that we can easily follow and
predict, and some of them do things outside our lifetimes: Mars moved closer to
the earth this year than it has in 65,000 years and won't be back for another
264! Each of the planets move on their own schedules, and we have to look up the
information in order to follow them. And
outside our little "home" there are wonders that we have yet to
predict and understand.
When you begin to realize how complex the scheduling of the universe is, you
are not surprised that the discoveries of the early astronomers were rejected by
the church. The church represents to the people what is "true," what
is "established," and what is "known." Therefore, anything
that put to rout our understanding of time or scheduling must be false and
heretical.
One might ask:
Why do planets, starts and galaxies go in an elliptical pattern?
How did the Universe start?
Who is in charge here?
Why has nature picked green as the plant growth color?
Why are our heads round?
Where do thoughts come from?
How do I obtain peace with myself?
Einstein said that the larger our circle of knowledge grows, the bigger
becomes the circle of what we don't know.
And when I mentioned my thoughts, someone asked me, "Are you aware that
there is no such thing as time? There is only the consciousness of Now, or lack
thereof. We are always living in NOW. If you could focus your attention to NOW,
you would experience reality."
But God and his creative skills and his plans continue to be beyond the mind
of man. What does it all mean? What will we reject next that is beyond our
comprehension?
This article appeared in the November 2002 edition of the Singles Network
Newsletter and was excerpted from the December 2, 2001 sermon by Reverend Peter
G. James, the senior pastor at Vienna Presbyterian Church in Vienna, Virginia: www.viennapres.org
Princess was a Nuisance
Many Faces of Love
by C. A. Baum
She was only a
mixed-breed scrap of a dog. Her colors were black and tan, but her eyes were
what made me take her. They were warm and had gold flecks in them. Other than
that, she was nothing unusual, or as my father put it, " A damn
nuisance." I called her Princess.
Dad preferred his
hunting dog, a massive hound named Rudy, who followed him everywhere. Rudy had
status; Princess was barely tolerated. At mealtimes, she would wait until Rudy
ate, then settle for scraps. She slept beside my bed, content that at least one
person loved her.
One day Princess started
barking like mad near the railroad tracks that ran beside our house. We realized
something was wrong when Dad said Rudy had gotten loose. We followed Princess,
who led us to Rudy’s lifeless body beside the tracks. His neck was broken.
Dad stumbled back to the
house in shock. The task of burying the huge dog fell on me. As I dug, Princess
sat next to the body with a perplexed look in her eyes. When I lowered Rudy into
the grave, she showed alarm. When I began to cover him with dirt, she became
visibly agitated, so much so that I hurriedly unburied Rudy and made certain he
was dead.
When I finished the
burial, Princess tried to unbury him. I chased her away. She tried again. I held
her to me and told her through my tears that her friend was gone. An odd
expression came over her features, and she walked over to the grave and lay
across Rudy’s final resting place.
That night I tried to
get her inside, but she wouldn’t budge. I tried to get her to eat, but she
ignored the bowl. Next day the same thing. That night a howling rainstorm roared
in. She was still there the following morning and kept her vigil throughout the
rainy day. I told Dad I was worried, but he said, ‘She will be in when she
gets hungry and wet enough." He clearly was not concerned over what he
considered an inferior animal. More important, he was doing his own grieving.
Until then he had not been able to even look at his pet’s grave.
The next morning
Princess was still in place. I ran downstairs, determined this time to drag her
off. I stopped when I saw Dad emerge from the parlor carrying his buffalo-robe
blanket. No one was ever allowed to touch that blanket. He told me to stay put.
I watched from the window as he shook out the blanket above Princess’ soaked
form, wrapped her up, and lifted her into his arms like a child. He told us to
get towels and warm soapy water. My sister and I wanted to care for her, but he
would not allow it. Never looking up as he worked on the bedraggled animal, he
said the job was his alone.
He cleaned off the mud
and dried her shivering body. Then he took her in his lap. For a long time he
sat there, tears running down his cheeks; the only sound in the room was the
rain beating on the windows. Finally, he declared that as long as he lived,
Princess would sit at his feet, sleep on his bed, and eat from his plate. He
said that he had never known such loyalty from man or beast and that he would
honor her always.ª
Carol Ann Baum is a New
Jersey-based free-lance writer. She writes, "My father and the dog are long
deceased, but never forgotten; nothing in the heart ever is." Reprinted by
permission from Modern Maturity, a publication of AARP, January, 1999, (202)
434-6850, Washington, DC.
Jenny Wrens
by Don Seeber
Sometimes, it is only after loved ones have died that we
recognize the little ways in which they affect our lives. The big impacts are
fairly obvious while they are still around: their influences on our basic
personality our hobbies, vocations, spiritual life, and so on. I went to West
Point largely because my father was a West Pointer. I played baseball and
basketball because I have an older brother who did the same. These are all easy
to understand.
But why do I call all Wrens "Jenny"? I never
gave it much thought until I attended my grandmother’s funeral. There I was
reminded of what comfort it is to look back at the lives of departed family
members and friends and realize the little things they leave with you. I
remember the wrens that inhabited a couple of birdhouses in my grandparents
orchard in St. Joseph, Missouri. Grandma called the females, "Jenny
Wren." Now, I don’t know where the name came from; whether it was from a
poem, folklore, or if my grandmother came up with the name on her own. But, even
though I have heard other people use the name, I will always remember that it
was in Grandma’s orchard that I first heard the name. And now, whenever
I see or hear a wren, I call it "Jenny" – even though it is
probably a male if I hear it sing. However the name came about, it seems very
appropriate for such a diminutive and nervous, but tenaciously protective little
bird. And it brings precious memories of my grandmother back to my mind.
Reprinted from Pelican Post,
June 1996, Southport, NC.
Eight Priceless Gifts
from someone who loves me
- THE GIFT OF LISTENING
Really listen – no interrupting, no daydreaming, no planning your
response. Just listening
- THE GIFT OF AFFECTION
Be generous with appropriate hugs, kisses, pats on the back and handholds.
Share your love with family & friends.
- THE GIFT OF LAUGHTER
Clip cartoons. Share articles and funny stories. Your gift will say,
"I love to laugh with you."
- THE GIFT OF A WRITTEN NOTE
It can be a simple "Thanks for the help" note or a full sonnet
(help on the web at CyranoCyber.com). A brief, handwritten note may be
remembered for a lifetime, and may even change a life.[Editor’s note: I
wrote "10 things I like most about you" for four of my friends.]
- THE GIFT OF A COMPLIMENT
A simple and sincere, "You look great in red!" "You did a
super job!" or "That was a wonderful meal!" can make someone’s
day.
- THE GIFT OF A FAVOR
Every day, every place you go, do something kind for someone around you.
- THE GIFT OF SOLITUDE
There are times when we want nothing better than to be left aloe. Be
sensitive to those times and give the gift of solitude to others.
- THE GIFT OF A CHEERFUL DISPOSITION
The easiest way to feel good is to extend a kind word to someone else. It
is not hard to say "Hello" or "Thank you."
Winter
sometimes wraps it's chilling shroud
around our
hearts,
but God promises all of us
that spring will come again
to warm us
with it's gentle touch,
and those whose loss we mourn
are experiencing
eternal spring,
and so we can choose to rejoice for them.
In celebration of the life of Elaine O'Regan
by Bonnie Stephens, March 20, 2002
"If
I should go before the rest of you,
break not a flower nor inscribe a
stone.
Nor when I'm gone speak in a Sunday voice,
but be the usual selves
that I have known.
Weep if you must, parting is hell,
but life goes on,
so sing as well."
Joyce Grenfell in "The First to Go"
These quotations were part of the celebration of the life of Philip Roth
(May 28, 1946-December 29, 2001)
|
Fighting Words
by Jan Edmiston
Let love be genuine. Hate what is evil, hold fast to
what is good; love one another with mutual affection; outdo one another in
showing honor. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.
Contribute to the needs of the saints. Extend hospitality to strangers.
Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave room for
the wrath of God, for it is written, "Vengeance is mine; I will
repay, says the Lord." No,’ if your enemies are hungry, feed them;
if they are thirsty, give them something to drink…’ Do not be overcome
by evil, but overcome evil with good. Romans 12: 9-20, verses
A Response to the Fighting Words heard since September
11, 2001:
The people of Afghanistan are needy. Their misery
quotient is one of the highest in the world. Their people are starving.
They live in ramshackle homes if they have homes. They have very little in
terms of standard comforts.
In the days since the terrorist attack on the Pentagon
and the twin towers, people have streamed into churches who have not been
in a house of worship for years. People are re-writing their wills,
putting their affairs in order re-thinking their priorities. What do we do
next? Not just as a nation, but as individuals.
God's Blessings
One of God’s peculiar blessings out of this tragedy
is that people have become more aware of what is good and noble in life.
Are we willing to let God avenge the evil we have experienced? Justice is
one thing. Vengeance is another. "Moving on" is not merely a
psychologically helpful step – it is a step of faith. Now more than ever
we need strong voices who have the opportunity to speak God’s Word in
these days when so many are speaking words of hate and ignorance.
As we stand on the cusp of war, with a charred Pentagon
two miles down the road and the remains of the World Trade Center in a
heap on the ground, there is hope in this God we say we trust. What kind
of people do we want to be in these days? Do we want to be like the noble,
strong, brave people we have seen and read about in the last few days? Or
do we want to succumb to the temptation of being like those who created
this chaos?
This is place to which God has called us: Do not be
overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good. One true God –
worshipped by Jews and Christians and Muslims alike – is the only
ultimate Super Power. And God will have justice against all evil. Jesus is
a perfect model. All the world is looking. What kind of model are we?
An excerpt from "Fighting Words," the
September 23, 2001 sermon of Jan Edmiston, Fairlington Presbyterian
Church, 3846 King Street, Alexandria, Va. (703) 931-7344 www.fpcusa.org
"The Future is something which everyone reaches
at
the rate of 60 minutes an hour,
whatever he does, whoever he is.."
C. S. Lewis
When We Do Not Know How to Pray
Late one evening, a poor farmer on his way back from
the market found himself without his prayer book. The wheel of his cart
had come off right in the middle of the woods, and it distressed him that
this day should pass without his having said his prayers.
So this is the prayer he made: "I have done
something very foolish, Lord. I came away from home this morning without
my prayer book, and my memory is such that I cannot recite a single prayer
without it. So this is what I am going to do: I shall recite the alphabet
five times very slowly and you, to whom all prayers are known, can put the
letters together to form the prayers I can’t remember."
And the Lord said to his angels, "Of all the
prayers I have heard today, this one was undoubtedly the best because it
came from a heart that was simple and sincere."
Many can do loving deeds. Rare is the person who can think loving
thoughts.
A Hasidic tale from Anthony de Mello in Taking Flight
(Doubleday)
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